Трой Деннинг - Waterdeep

Ao paused and let his listeners consider his words. Finally, he resumed speaking. “But I did create you and not without purpose. Now, I am going to demand that you fulfill that purpose. From this day forward, your true power will depend upon the number and devotion of your followers.”

From one end of the Realms to another, the gods gasped in astonishment. In far off Tsurlagoi, Talos the Raging One growled, “Depend on mortals?” The one good eye of his youthful, broad-shouldered avatar was opened wide in outrage and shock.

“Depend on them and more,” Ao returned. “Without worshipers, you will wither, even perish entirely. And after what has passed in the Realms, it will not be easy to win the faith of mortals. You will have to earn it by serving them.”

In sunny Tesiir, a beautiful woman with silky scarlet hair and fiery red-brown eyes looked as though she were going to retch. “Serve them?” Sune asked.

“I have spoken!” Ao replied.

“No!” Cyric yelled. “After all I went through—”

“Quiet!” Ao thundered, pointing a finger at the thief. “I do not care to be challenged. It makes me fear I have made a poor choice for my new god.”

Cyric’s eyes went blank and he stared at Ao in shock.

“It is the reward you sought, is it not?” Ao asked, not taking his eyes off the thief.

Cyric stumbled up the stairway. “It is indeed!” he exclaimed. “I will serve you well, I swear it. You have my gratitude!”

A deep, cruel chuckle rolled out of Ao’s throat. “Do not thank me, evil Cyric. Being God of Strife, Hatred, and Death is no gift.”

“It isn’t?” Cyric asked, furrowing his brow in puzzlement.

“You desired godhood, control over your destiny, and great power,” Ao said. “You will have only two of these—godhood and power—to exercise as you will in the Realm of the Dead. And all of the suffering in Toril will be yours as well, to cause and inflict as you wish. But you will never know contentment or happiness again.”

Ao paused then and looked at Midnight. “But the thing you have desired most, Lord Cyric, will never come to pass. I am your master now. You serve me … and your worshipers. I believe you will find that you now have less freedom than you had as a child in the alleys of Zhentil Keep.”

“Wait,” the new God of Strife cried. “I don’t—”

“Enough!” Ao boomed, turning his palm toward Cyric. “I know you will perform your duties well, for they are the only thing you are suited to.”

Midnight’s heart sank. With Cyric ruling the Realm of the Dead, she could never keep her promise to rescue Sneakabout.

“Forgive me,” the mage whispered, turning away from the stairway. “Some promises cannot be kept.” She feared Cyric had been right about the nature of life. It was a cruel, brutal experience that ended only in torment and anguish.

“Midnight!” Ao called, turning his attention to the magic-user.

At the sound of her name, Midnight slowly turned to face the master of the gods. “What is it?” she demanded defiantly. “I’m injured and fatigued.. I have lost the one man I loved. What more do you want from me?”

“You have something that has no place in the Realms,” Ao said, pointing a long finger at her.

She immediately knew he meant Mystra’s power. “Take it. I have no further use for it.”

“Perhaps you do,” Ao responded.

“I am too weary for riddles,” she snapped.

“I have lost many gods during this crisis,” Ao said. “As punishment for their theft, I will leave Bane and Myrkul dispersed. But Mystra, Lady of Mysteries and grantor of magic, is also gone. Even I cannot restore her. Will you take her place?”

Midnight looked at Cyric and shook her head. “No. That was not the reason I recovered the tablets. I have no interest in corrupting myself as Cyric did.”

“What a pity you view my offer that way,” Ao replied, gesturing at Cyric. “I have taken one mortal for his malevolence and cruelty. I had hoped to take another for her wisdom and true heart.”

Cyric snickered. “Waste no more breath on her. She lacks the courage to meet her destiny.”

“Accept!” urged Adon. “You must not let Cyric win! It is your responsibility to oppose him—” The cleric stopped, realizing that Midnight had more than fulfilled any responsibilities she had. “Forgive me,” he said. “You are as brave and as true a woman as I have ever known, and I believe you would be a worthy goddess. But I have no right to tell you what your obligations are.”

At the mention of obligations, Midnight thought of her promise to Sneakabout, then of the faithful souls waiting for deliverance in the Fugue Plain. Finally, she imagined her lover’s spirit wandering the vast white waste with millions of other dead souls. Ao’s offer might give her the means to spare Kelemvor that eternal misery, to rescue the Faithful from their undeserved torture, even to keep her promise to Sneakabout. If so, Midnight knew Adon was correct—she did have a duty to answer the overlord’s call.

“No, you’re right,” the mage said, turning to Adon. “I must go. If I don’t, the deaths of Sneakabout and Kelemvor will have meant nothing.” She took the cleric’s hands and smiled. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

Adon smiled in return. “Without you, the future of the Realms would be very dark.”

Ao interrupted their conversation. “What is your decision, Midnight?”

The mage quickly kissed Adon on the cheek. “Good-bye,” she said.

“I’ll miss you,” the cleric replied.

“No you won’t,” Midnight said, a smile crossing her lips. “I’ll be with you always.” She quickly turned and stepped onto the stairway, which had become a path of diamonds, and went to stand opposite Cyric.

Addressing Ao, she said, “I accept.” Then she turned to Cyric and added, “And I’m going to make you regret your betrayals for the rest of eternity.”

For an instant, Cyric was afraid of Midnight’s threat. Then, the thief remembered that he knew the mage’s true name, Ariel Manx. He smiled weakly and wondered if that would have any power over Midnight now that she was a goddess.

Ao lifted his hands. The Celestial Stairway and everything on it disappeared in a column of light. The brilliant pillar blinded Adon and the thousands of citizens who had been looking at the top of Mount Waterdeep in that instant.

In sunny Tesiir, Tsurlagoi, Arabel, and in a hundred other cities where the gods had taken shelter, similar pillars of light flared and rose into the heavens. Finally, in Tantras, where the God of Duty had fallen against Bane, the scattered shards of Torm’s lion-headed avatar rose off the ground and drifted back together. A golden pillar of light shot out over the sea, then rose into the heavens, and Torm also returned home.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding!”

Blackstaff’s voice brought an abrupt end to Adon’s uneasy slumber. Though still unable to see, the cleric knew he was lying in the eyrie’s mess hall, alongside a dozen more suffering men. Shortly after Ao’s ascension, Blackstaff’s restorative potion had worn off and Adon had collapsed. Some of the riders had brought him into the tower and laid him out with their wounded.

“We’ve been looking for you for—well, for a few minutes anyway,” Blackstaff said sheepishly. It had been over six hours since he had parted company with Adon and Midnight. At the Pool of Loss, the young wizard had found Elminster inside a prismatic sphere, besieged by denizens on both sides of the gate to the Realm of the Dead. Since Blackstaff had exhausted himself fighting in the streets, it had taken a while to free his friend.